


the pockets of unsteady light

by Ghostigos



Series: grow fonder [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Tweek attempts to find an outlet.





	the pockets of unsteady light

**Author's Note:**

> ( _my chest, a jar of honey knifed open — I know sweet is only sweet if you sacrifice your ugliest parts_ )
> 
> welcome back to Disaster Gays Shenanigans: a biography! a small disclaimer that these series will be out of order on the timeline (i.e. [in the space between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592132) was college-age kiddos) so this fic takes place when the kids are around 15-16 y/o
> 
> tweek's parents are canonically awful so there are nods to canon-typical child neglect/non-consensual drug abuse. also in the series kenny is genderfluid and shows the alteration in pronouns via colored bracelets (blue for he/him, pink for she/her, grey for they/them)

So uh, not to be overdramatic but there are literal earthquakes under your skin.

And like, you know that's definitely not a _normal_ thing to relish in. You're constantly on the brim of fizzing over like a carbonated drink, and you explode everywhere when shaken. It sucks, of course, this underlying tension cording your muscles, but it's what you know; and routine — however fucked said routine is — will always be better than exploring the dark corners of the unknown.

Honestly, you should have seen this coming for a long time; granted, your chronic addiction to, loose airquotes, "caffeine" has been really, really prominent over these last couple of years. School tests started getting harder and your friends will arrive at your parent's shop sporadically just to pull an all-nighter, but that's about it. Nowadays the fact that you stock your canisters with coffee in place of water has often been responded to with narrowed brows, like people want to say something but don't.

You really, kinda wish they had sooner.

The drug tests came back with check marks on sheets and an invitation for a future appointment with a doctor's office.

A few Google searches allowed you to reach your own verification of the crumpled papers in your hand. In a sick form of irony, you hobbled on your knees and tried very, very hard not to disturb the faults too much, or else you don't think you'd ever stop shaking once you're enacted. But your throat betrayed you as you made small hiccups, and you hadn't realize that your ratted shirt was clotted with tear stains.

It explained a lot, but jesus, _meth??_ Like the subject of those scary-as-shit commercials on TV??? The cautionary (yet uninformative) tales they'd tell you about in school??? Meth _destroys lives,_ and you've been inadvertently subjecting your body to its horrors since you were in fucking _elementary school._ Without your consent, no less...

You refrained from telling Craig for a while because you knew he'd freak...and he did, when the can of worms was inevitably dropped. He denounced your parents very, very verbally from over the phone as you were bawling...and it was honestly enough to demote your wails to whimpers because you've never heard him yell that much, and he's honestly pretty scary when he wants to be.

You pretended that there was so hint of slimy satisfaction when he was on your doorstep filing his complaints to your parents, then sped off with you in the passenger's seat.

That was a week ago, and you haven't got the balls to contact your parents since. They haven't messaged you and vice versa, so it's hard to know where who stands on the issue — or if they even know it's an issue at all. But you just can't go home right now. It's just...you really can't look your parents in the eyes after discovering they're the cause of your...your _drug addiction._ Jesus _fuck._

The Tuckers have been suitable in accordance to their unendorsed houseguest, but you know it's nothing relating to your own terms, since they're just those kinds of folks when it comes to their children's lovers. You don't want to sound ungrateful — since no one else knows, it's not like you're gonna go cry at Clyde or Token's door or anything — because it _is_ nice, even when they tell you that they're happy you're here and that's an absolute lie. When people say that you're 'always welcome here!', they're talking about middle-class, white-collared, pleasant folk, not a fucking _drug_ addict.

Even so, Mrs. Tucker holds you when you shake and tells you you're not a burden. Mr. Tucker claps you on the shoulder when you cross paths. Hell, even Tricia is too accepting of your condition.

Craig holds your sweaty hands, chapped from you picking at the skin like you're splotched with bug bites. He digs his nails into your palm, the pressure provided almost as sharp and heavy as the expectations on your shoulders.

He deserves better; you've thought this for years now and it's a highlighted fact now more than ever. He's suggested prescribed medications to assuage yourself; apparently ADD is in his gene pool and he can always snag some pills off the pharmacy if you need some sustenance ASAP. It's a white lie and you know it — Craig is definitely worth a diagnosis of _some_ thing, even if you haven't been able to put a finger on what — and you're definitely not worth a compromise of morality, so you said no.

You said no, but your hands still waver and come apart like an unraveling ball of yarn the more you tremble. You're like a spring that bursts and coils; your nails have been picked to the bone and then some; tears claw down your cheeks in the early hours of morning. You need coffee-slash-meth _now_ because absence really does make the heart grow fonder; you feel like the diagram in your body is unbalance, unwhole. There's a desire for a substance like the desire for air, which normal people don't have and don't need.

Well, there's another option on the table — it was presented by Craig himself, tentatively, no less — but...

But you can't and you won't, and that's final. Even when Mr. and Mrs. Tucker think you're not looking and share some sort of weird look akin to pity and maybe even concern. Even though your parents haven't called you or texted. Even though you don't _want_ your parents to call you or text you. Even though you feel like your tics and whines derive Craig from sleeping; and the band-aid supply in the house is running thin because half of them are stockpiled on your arm's raw scabs.

You just can't.

But you feel your chance so prove yourself slipping, so you either have to find a way to keep yourself tame enough to be considered sane _or_ you can face the music. And the latter is _not_ an option.

-

So, here's a riddle presented: a spazzed-out freshmen druggie kicks himself out of his own house. Where does he go when his boyfriend (and boyfriend's family) is tired of his meltdowns and tantrums?

Well, he's found in the back alley of the rotten part of his hometown, fiddling with a loaded cigarette than an animated towel gave him.

It's a sketchy area, one that you've always avoided; but there have been the blue-moon occasions that you were summoned to the destitute areas of South Park (usually to visit Kenny or to pick up a 'special ingredient' for your family's coffee recipe — _ha!!!_ God, you're a fucking moron). It's an avoided area on purpose — you've already given away, like, all your cash just to cover your ass; it's not entirely the fault of the poor here, since South Park is built on shame and problematic economy choices that have been shoved under the rug and ultimately the lower class. The lesson you've been taught is that ignorance is bliss.

Yeah, honestly?? Fuck that.

So here you are, reddened with cracked skin from inbound frostbite (thanks, torn jeans and thin flannel), fumbling with your only source of heat: a weak lighter.

The first hit of the cannabis makes you choke on your saliva; you're inept to smoking or even vaping, so it's really a wonder that you're addicted to _anything_ in the first place. You mouth bubbles and burns under the surprising amount of hotness scything through your frozen lungs, causing you to choke for an embarrassingly-long amount of time after your first whiff.

"JESUS!" You spit out a gallon of drool because _yikes?_ No one ever told you that weed is hot????? "Is it — is it supposed to _burn_ like that????"

Your uncertified tutor stis close to your side, wrapped in a scruffy cloth that you guess once identified as a blanket. He's numb to the low temperature; his eyes are glazed red with shot veins crawling towards his pupils. It takes a good ten seconds before your question seems to reach the front desk.

"Ohh, yeah," Towelie sighs, giving your condition a once-over. "You might wanna...yeah, it kinda burns the first time. Don't worry about it, kid. S'fine..."

"I— okay?????"

You expect some sort of pro-tip to follow suit, but Towelie dismisses your presence as quickly as he acknowledged it and dissociates into the sweet-smelling mist encircling you both. It'd be pointless to prod now, especially since you'll probably receive an even vaguer response than before.

It takes some more faulty inhales before a molasses-like sensation eventually tugs at your bones, making your skin lag to the floor underneath; this is.... _probably_ what feeling relaxed is??? It's definitely a foreign attachment your body experiences to the feeling, similar to foating away like an untethered balloon. Not that you're complaining.

Your hindbrain is still on autopilot, like always, so there's a lot of worries overstuffed in the backdrop — the usual menu of self-deprecation, loneliness, worst-case scenarios — but you can still constitute your absolute Mess™ of a brain if you want to. It's such a relieving choice to find that your grip on these anxieties are melting away the more you ignore your crackling lungs and just reposition the blunt in your fingertips.

Weed can be prescribed, correct? So, this is _good,_ then. Now Craig doesn't have to exceed another boundary to transpose yourself; honest to god if he comes home with a plastic bag and a receipt for medications assigned to the wrong patient and hands them to you, you'll kill him.

This is the _one_ thing you can do for yourself, anti-marijuana ads be damned; not like this is worse than the drug you're already latched onto. So what-fucking-ever. And besides, what's the big deal with smoking weed in a freezing alleyway with a stoned, animated towel?

Outside of the obvious, you mean.

So you just wallow in the cold as the drug's effects seep in and dominate your mindset. You're not completely dislocated from reality, but it's still such a hazy relief that you can be in control of this dissociative episode. The high is (literally) wrapped around your fingers; it's regaining control of what you're putting in your own body.

"Hey Towelie, do you have—? Oh, hey Tweek."

External senses return, eventually; so you unfurl from your internal spiral, mostly because your immediate danger radar stops tingling the moment you can put a name to the voice.  
Your movements are cemented into place, your body simultaneously floating in mid-air, so you just have to manage a side-eye at the blur of orange approaching you. Speaking of which, the world...looks kinda different in a weird, crisp-kinda way?? Not sure when that happened, but...

"Oh. Heya, Kenny," Towelie resurfaces to greet your visitor before your voice can even locate your tongue, so you just suck in another whiff of smoke; this time the drag is sharper and has you hacking up a few organs just as your friend approaches, which is honestly just the icing on the cake.

You recollect the snot dripping from your nose (charming, you're aware) and toss a half-assed wave in Kenny's direction as they kneel down to seemingly observe you both. Their oversized parka veils their wrist so you can't spot the colored bracelet today, so you'll just play it safe and use neutral pronouns.

As they give you a sorta weird gaze (it could just be your imagination that they're giving you that Inescapable Pity Look you're accustomed to receiving) you decide that you don't appreciate being subtly condescended against. But you're still occupied in trying to get the words _hot!!!_ and _ouch!!!_ out of your inventory, so you focus on that.

Eventually Kenny unfastens their stare from you and turns to Towelie; their gaze's weight shifts as easy as hopping from one foot to the other; seemingly-open and buoyant versus shrewd and watchful.

"I'm just here to pick up my order," they say to him. "You have it, right?"

Towelie murmurs something incoherent, then responds a bit more comprehensible: "Uh, yeah. Gimme a sec to find it..."

"Sure thing."

Kenny dispatches to give the high towel some space to dig through an old gym bag on his side — seems that Towelie's not two-faced in the business, but the local reputation he carries proves that he doesn't exactly have to be subtle...

You feel a faint tick of annoyance when Kenny hauls themself to their feet, only to plop right down next to you. The syrupy sweetness from the joint disintegrates the more you feel their eyes dissecting you intently, when they think you're not looking. Honestly you'd rather have people outright pity you at this point instead of dominating some fucking fantasy of theirs that the less people _verbally_ worry about you, the better.

At least _then_ you'd have the right to start yelling at people when they mentioned getting help...

The drag of the next blow melts your anger, but it leaves a stagnant bitterness in its wake.

"So," Kenny says finally, "I didn't expect to see you here."

You sniff again, inhaling the cannabis's scent. "I just wanted to try it."

"Oh, cool..." Their tone implies discrete commentary on your answer, and you really _really_ wanna tell them to fuck off. Then they ask: "Does Craig know you're back here?"

The question hits a jumpy nerve and the acidic feeling in your gut pops to the surface. But you're still drifting, so you can only sharpen your voice like a knife and spit, " _Fuck_ Craig."

You immediately want to swallow the words back once they escape, but they're out there now and Kenny's brows are upraised so there's no takebacks. But you're still a bit huffed at being asked like you have a curfew to return to your boyfriend at a designated time. You're not his _pet._

Kenny seems to realize their error and show a defensive pair of hands with their palms facing you. "Whoa, sorry man, I didn't mean to—"

"Whatever," you huff, taking another smoke and feeling the manufactured tranquility rise into your skull. You pointedly snap your head away from Kenny to assert...dominance over the situation, you guess. You're not exactly in the mood to be social anymore; Towelie was enough on his own and he's not even in the right mind to form a complete sentence.

Speak of the devil, he finally pops back into your field of vision to hand off a med capsule that's been emptied and restocked with crumpled strains of kush. He asks Kenny for payment, and you hear the reply of, _Yeah, it's in my pocket, hold on._

 _M'kayyyy._ Aaand he's gone again.

By the way, your environment is cotton-based, it seems, because a lot of the background noise has dimmed into a dullness in your eardrums; like you're submerged in water but there's enough air in your lungs that you sink into the abyss, in wonder and in peace.

_Tweek? Tweek, buddy, HEY, Tweek!!_

You resurface with the vigor of someone gently bobbing onto the plane of the waters, before preparing to plunge back down again. Your external hardwares stiffen as you once again are forced to admit Kenny's presence.

Their eyes are the first thing that draw you back in, and for once they're brimming and bright and you can see a lotta shit in them, mainly something hedging on concern. You're about to give them another harsh snap when they say, "Are you okay, dude?"

There's no malicity in the question — no overwhelming concern, nothing that you'd shy away from in terms of the tone. But you curl up still, feeling the fur rise on your hackles.

"'M' _fine,_ " you say, smashing the phrase together because your tongue feels like a big, rusty mess.

You receive another pity-frown in response, but you ignore it a lil easier with the weed’s influence. You slur, “Y’gonna smoke that?”, pointing to Kenny’s stash.

They regard your question for a moment, examining it — or maybe you’re just hard to understand with your tongue-tied speech, but still… — and just responds, “It’s not for me, it’s for my parents.”

God, what is it with parents and drugs nowadays? You take a longer inhale and pretend that your lungs still aren’t screaming.

Your question seems to get Kenny recharged, and they stand. “Well, it was...nice seeing you Tweek. Later, dude.” You think you grunt out a response but you’re occupied right now with this quietness you’re feeling, draping over your body like liquid sunshine. It’s calming, it’s immeasurable, and it kinda smells, buuuuutttt small prices to pay, right?

You don’t hear Kenny depart. The memory of their arrival drifts into the billowed smoke around you, where you lazily attempt to grasp at it but to no avail. Around you, the world becomes darker; you spot a streetlamp in your side-vision blink properly into view.

You think if loneliness had a taste it’d be the cannabis between your cold lips.

-

You return to Craig’s place with the overwhelming stench of cheap perfume in your wake; you imagine the smell of expired lavender and honey as a cartoonish blob of sickly green, clouding your body and trailing behind you.

Hyperfocus grants you insight on Craig’s creased nostrils, his eyebrows bent in your presence; you know you’re probably less than an appealing crowd with your suspicious lack of commentary, not to mention you’re bound to look like shit, since you just popped into the thrift store and floated home after parting from Towelie’s alleyway.

It’s a realm of pleasantry that you savor as you come down from your first high. To feel the storms in your veins lessen into a gradual rainfall, lacking any forte. It is kinda nice to just slowly drift down from cloud nine and take your time descending from high heavens (hah, _‘high’_ heavens… – what, you can be funny sometimes!!!!).

But the problem arises when no one says anything. You know you probably appear less than…Tweek-ish…when you’re able to sit at the dinner table without the silverware clattering from your constant quaking. Plus you’re like, still at least _seventy_ -percent absent, so. Less screaming and trembling on your end, seems to make people a bit antsy.

But none of the Tuckers even _mention_ it.

And Craig Tucker – Craig _motherfucking_ Tucker, permitted love of your life and friend since fourth fucking grade – has only silently instilled the same stance on the matter since he first placed that…that _god-awful_ resolution, that which will not be named…

The paper is crumpled into your pocket still — you can’t find yourself to exorcise the damned thing because you know it was given to you because he’s worried, because everyone’s getting worried, and they have a right to be.

Your mind kicks back at the prospect claimed entirely, until the moment you’re drained of the marijuana’s dreamlike effect you begin to search for the vice’s effects once more, your creeping panic being forced out in place of the desire – the desperation – of self-resolve.

-

You return to Towelie not long after your first high, demanding some amount of the stuff with what little cash you’ve stashed in your pockets. Looks like your inanimated dealer’s reservoir is running dry, but he gives you a little of whatever he can provide.

You’re just going to smooth over the fact that his bag smells like feet and he’s storing all of his supplies smushed together and unlabeled like an animal.

“Glad you’ve realized the health benefits of marijuana, Twig,” Towelie says to you, and cuts you off at your timid, ‘um, actually—’ when he mispronounces (mis-remembers???) your name. “S’uh, it’s good for the brain, y’know? All that anxiety comin’ off of ya’, that’s not normal. It’s good to keep your wits about ya’ in life.”

You’d like to make the joke about what the hell this guy is on, but. The situation speaks for itself???

Still, you ascribe patience and just make a few polite nods, pretending that the ache for an alternate virus isn’t grating uncomfortably against your everything.

He hands you a bottle with only a couple of kush balled close together, where you might have to string them apart like monkey bread. It looks stringy compared to the last puffy strains you’d attained, but you feel a bit too misplaced already that you don’t have the guts to bring it up.

You just twitch wildly as you exchange the money and pocket the weed, feeling like you’re consciously walking around in public with your shirt both backwards and inside-out.  
You decide not to step out of this area in South Park, just because you know that this is a different realm of your town and you probably won’t get shit for starring as the spazzy kid on the sidewalk trying weed for the second time. And yeah, you know you’re probably just finding an alternate for a growing, inevitable, breakdown-inducing drug that you want to be chugging back into your system.

But any semblance of sanity you have left in that skull of yours is snuffed out the minute you realize you’re fumbling for the lighter you “borrowed” from Mr. Tucker’s cabinet the same way you clutch at the coffee-filled mugs your parents would put in front of you. To get you to work harder, to feel better, to do everything that they couldn’t and relied on an intoxicated drink to stop you from stalling on adolescent and to keep running around and performing and working, working, working…

Your fingers stumble as you press the poorly-rolled joint you concocted to your chapped, pale lips.

This addiction is a pain in the ass, a wrist out of place, bacteria in an opened vein that clogs up until it hits a critical point. And you’ve got nobody to blame but your own flesh and blood, like a fucking loser. It’s all their fault you’re out in the cold trading with a sketchy dealer (no pun intended) because they couldn’t do their job.

And it’s all YOUR fault for not catching onto all of this sooner!!! God, think of all the trouble you could’ve avoided if you just….fuck, just drank water or something?????? Maybe been a hardworking son _without_ caffeine so they didn’t have to shove it into your hands?????????????

Your brain is a whirlwind of shit and this cannabis is only making it worse as it defiles through the cabinets of your brain and goes loose with flying all the papers everywhere. You feel the heat clawing at your lungs even with the gulps of water you swallowed before arriving.

You feel upturned. You feel _violated._

Your breathing is cumbersome as it sticks to your throat and doesn’t try to come out, clogging your breathing and making yourself feel red and puffy and just a teeny bit overwhelmed. There’s a sensation of being pulled underwater as you sit on the edge of a brick wall, trying to calm down some.

_This isn’t like before…_

No shit!!!! _Now_ what??????

Great. You find one outlet for your tumultuous problems and now you manage to fuck _that_ up too. Maybe Craig was right when he handed you those papers some weeks ago, when his mother was too afraid of your reaction and passed that down to her son. Maybe you can’t do this by yourself.

But it’s harder to force your burdens on other people, is all. You already do that subconsciously, as if that isn’t a kick in the teeth already. You’re jittery and a big ball of overflowing emotions so of course people are gonna have to deal with the aftermath of your decadence.

“Tweek?”

Oh fuck yourself with a hammer now this weed is making the noises in your head be projected from gigantic speakers in your eardrums.

And speak of the devil themself now you’ve got Father Lucifer in gaudy orange showing up at your doorstep to give you some unwanted life lesson, as is the norm.

You’d love to chat but the marijuana is glossing over any self-restraint you have left, so you don’t know how much longer you can stay conscious without lashing out at everything that moves like the _freak_ you are.

The world spins, momentarily. A hand reaches out and steers you to lean against the wall, and you do so manually. You hear, “Tweek? Dude, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You just shake your head, emitting a pained humming from your throat, bringing your hands to your hair and winding your fingers into the locks.

Panic. You hear panic creeping in on both parties.

“Tweek, calm down. It’s okay—”

“Like FUCK it’s okay!!”

Your friend goes quiet but all hell has already broken loose. Your train of logical thought has absconded the _fuck_ outta the railways and all you’re left to do is babble.

“Everything’s gone to SHIT!!! My parents drug me with meth since fucking THIRD GRADE and I don’t have a job and I have to stay with Craig and I’m out here in the freezing cold smoking fucking WEED!!! Don’t tell me shit is okay because it’s _not_!!!!!!”

You sink to the floor, with all your confessions weighing down both yourself and the air around you like a bajillion anchors. You curl into a tight ball and emit a long, monotone groan that evolves into a loud scream.

“aaaAAAND!!!! I gotta get some fucking help or I’m gonna be a useless fucking drug addict so NOW!!!! Craig comes to me with this SHIT about fucking rehab!! REHAB???? Are you fucking _kidding_ me???? That’s not gonna do SHIT!! My life will be over when everyone learns I had to go to rehab!!!!”

You feel yourself withering our vocal chords and you go deathly quiet, feeling your sobs rack against your chest as you shake even harder. _Shit shit shithitshishit,_ they’ll think you’ve gone batshit insane and you’ll be locked up in a criminally insane institution so well done, Tweek Tweak. Way to prove your boyfriend wrong when he came in with the flyer for the place: a request from his mother. _It'll help you, babe,_ he promised.

A hand reaches forward and you make an embarrassing squeak and shy away before it makes contact, and they retract like you’re a hot surface.

In the process of freaking out you’ve dropped the joint to the ground, and you hear a shuffling noise from where you’re resting your head tightly behind your arms. Then a sniff, then a steady blow.

Kenny asks, “What kinda strain is this?”

You perk up, feeling tetchy. “What— does it MATTER??? It’s the same shit that I took yesterday!”

You watch Kenny take another sniff, then they notice the capsule you’d unceremoniously misplaced as well, looking at the bottle like they’re an archaeologist observing a fossil.

They shake their head. “No, this strain is different. It looks like it could be a sativa; what you had yesterday was definitely an indica.”

“I—what?????”

“Indica calms you down n’ stuff, makes you more relaxed,” Kenny explains. “Sativa puts your brain on overdrive and makes you kinda hyper. My brother used to smoke sativa before he went to work and he let me try some. It’s good for all-nighters.”

“I—I don’t…” _whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck_

“Yeah… I wouldn’t recommend buying from Towelie when he’s off-duty, probably best to just go to Medicinal Fried Chicken, since he’s usually more alert there.” You’re given a pity pat on the shoulder that feels like someone just stabbed your back and also spit on our face with a shit-eating smirk. It’s fucking embarrassing.

“I mean, it’s a rookie mistake, dude, don’t worry about it,” they say, but you sharply dismiss them, feeling the hot, electric jolt of shame in your chest. You snarl.

“ _I don’t care_!” you scream blindly. “I just wanted to do _one_ fucking thing by myself and I can’t even do THAT right!!! What the fuck, _sativa?????_ Jesus Christ I just wanted to forget that my parents HATE me and I’m just some promotion material for their business and I’m not even allowed to do _that????_ Fucking superb.”

Kenny frowns. “Wha— Tweek, are you—”

“FUCK OFF!!!!”

That shuts them up.

You shut up too, feeling naked under the concerned eye of a friend you’ve just snapped at, like you were so afraid of doing.

This sucks.

In some sort of running gag for a canned audience to howl at, you become conscious of your role as the skinny druggie kid on the impoverished side of the sidewalks, shivering out of the cold and the aftereffects of yet another panic attack. You’re still dizzy.

“This has really fucked you up,” Kenny says heavily. _Worriedly._ “I haven’t seen you twitching like this since we were kids.”

You think you open your mouth to insert something on your part, perhaps blindly protest, but you recalculate and begin to unspool your concerns slowly, deliberately; words get things accomplished, and people can’t understand blind screams and squeaks.

“I-I wanted to— I wanna be better than this but it’s so HARD. And if I—ngh, if I g-go to rehab I’ll just end up being the—the bad kid, ya’know??? And Craig doesn’t...doesn’t deserve that. And everyone else I get into contact with, I just… Hm. I wanted to b-be better! And I ca-can’t be like this…I really am just a bad kid.”

“You’re not a bad kid,” Kenny retorts, tone gentle. “And it sucks that your parents made you feel like you were some kinda ad for their business instead of their son.”

“I thought they LOVED me!” you spit, voice wobbling. “I thought— they were s-so supportive of me having a boyfriend and I thought it would change. Like, since they were, really happy about me being gay then it was— that it just k-kinda dismissed that they ignored me a lot…”

You bury your knees into your chest, lowering your head with a groan. “Everything just fucking sucks.”

There’s that ugly sensation that gallops into your chest, like you’ve done something awfully wrong, since you’re conclusion on the matter is left with silence. In the distance you hear police sirens that sear into your head, mixed with a faint argument that is occurring somewhere close by.

Impatience turns your head to your quieted friend, finding that their gaze has returned to default, unfortunately. “Well?” you press.

Kenny blinks. “Well what?”

Frustrated, you snap, “Aren’t you gonna give me some sort of advice??”

They purse their lips together, thinking, then with a half-assed shrug they reply, “I don’t think I’m very good with advice.”

You don’t accept it. “I don’t CARE!! Just tell me— fucking SOMETHING!!! I’m sick of not doing anything about all this fucking shit in my life and I need some advice!! I don’t care what it is, just TELL me!”

Mentally, you feel Kenny retract from you slightly, examining your harsh words and decoding them. It’s the same feeling as rubbing a cat the wrong way or pounding on an object too harshly that causes them to break, ever so slightly. Nevertheless, you’re persistent and so is Kenny, and neither object yields.

They put a finger to their lips, imitating thought. Then: “Well, maybe it’s okay to not know what to do sometimes.”

“What.”

“Well,” Kenny sighs, side-eying you, “I mean, you don’t wanna go to rehab but you don’t know what to do, right? So, like, you came over here and smoked weed for a while whatever. Did it help, at all?”

“I— No. Well,” you list sideways over to the abandoned marijuana; with this information that you were handed the wrong kind of strain that has your mind reeling at ten times the normal speed, the puzzle pieces align a little. The first hit was...definitely weird and new, but you don’t find yourself saying you hated it.

“I guess??” you decide. “I mean it was weird and my lungs hurt but...it was okay, I think.”

“Sooo...maybe you could just, I dunno, keep doing little things like that?” Kenny proposes at length. “I mean, you know yourself better than anyone here—”

“Craig does—”

“ _You_ know yourself better than _everyone,_ ” Kenny interrupts, and you sink back with a lurch of disapproval because jeez, alright then. “So maybe just be your own man on this? Like get help from friends or whatever, but you’re in charge of yourself, so.”

Jesus, that’s terrifying. And a lot of pressure???

You hug yourself tighter into this little ball of stress you’ve made of yourself. “I just— I hate to see my friends worry about me???? I hate when they ask if I need help and...and I don’t wanna put them in a weird situation, I guess.”

“I get that, dude,” Kenny says, and something in their tone tells you that they really do. “But we care about you. I don’t like seeing you like this personally” (you’re tempted to say you’re sorry but you hold your tongue) “but I mean, you’re my friend and I wanna help you out. I’m sure Craig is dying to help out too, he probably just doesn’t know how.

“But you do have a lotta people that love you, man. We want you to be happy.”

You don’t answer for a while — because you don’t want Kenny to hear how close you are to crying?? — but when you do your hair is spilling over your face and your voice is deliberately low. “How and why do you keep doing this for me.”

The answer is without hesitation. “I just told you why,” they reply, matter-of-factly. “You’re my friend and I care about you.” Then they close the subject with a pat on the shoulder that you accept without scooting away this time.

The silence creeps in again like a question you have to answer, as is usually the case when you’re accompanied by Kenny’s armchair psychology. But, you do find yourself lending gravity to their advice, with their breezy demeanor that informs you that you’re free to discard their words if you wish.

You guess you really are your own boss now???? Whoever makes your decisions and your choices in place of yourself, that’s your own volition. Again— _yikes._

But an idea sprouts amidst the turmoil. Something small and tiny, but it pierces through your body like liquid sunshine, melting away the icicles you’ve received from sitting here, motionless in the cold.

You spring up instantly, renewed by this single thought that you allow to grow stronger and stronger, motivating you. You’re in control of your life and you have no clue what the fuck you’re doing, but that seems to be the best place to start, honestly?? Rehab is out of the equation, but something else isn’t…

Kenny looks up at you with surprise at your newfound energy. You turn to them with a smile. “Thanks, Kenny.”

They seem a bit puzzled, but accept your gratitude anyway. “I...no problem, dude. Glad I could help, I guess.”

You reach into your pocket and throw the capsule with the leftover weed onto their lap. “I don’t think I’ll use this, but...it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

They pick it up and look at their new gift, then grant a small grin. “I guess you’re right.”

You sprint towards the railway then, leading you back to the Tucker’s house, leaving Kenny and your chilled cigarette behind.

-

You don’t approach Craig that night, or the night after that, or the night after that. Fourth time's a charm, though, after reviewing your flashcards to prep for the conversation and just ultimately deciding ‘fuck it, we’re not getting any younger.’ And if that isn’t a clear prompt that it’s go time, then you don’t know what is.

You find him on his bed watching ‘Red Racer’ again on his laptop, fiddling with a rubix cube and looking present in a different realm of reality. You have to knock a couple of times for him to look up from his work.

Walking forwards, silent and clasping at the paper held close to your heart, you feel like a prisoner on death row marching towards the electric chair. But Craig is quiet, his face carved from granite and — scarily like Kenny — revealing no rippling thoughts underneath the surface.

In a ballsy move you shove the paper onto his lap.

You wait for him with rollicking nerves itching your skin as Craig blinks, then picks up the paper and unfolds it, reading intently and wordlessly. His gaze says nothing of his notion, so you feel the need to blurt out your reasonings, which you’ve rehearsed over and over for this moment.

“I don’t… I don’t!! Want to go to rehab,” you stammer, tripping over your words and then hastily picking up the pieces. Your stomach twists as you add on, “But!!! I don’t wanna leave! I wanna — I wanna stay w-with you, and Clyde and Jimmy and Token and Kenny and...I’m willing to make a compromise!”

Craig looks back up at you, with his true sentiments on the topic seeming locked behind glass. If you inspect the paper carefully, you can spot your signature bleeding onto the back of the page.

“I-I know that it’s a lot to ask,” you say, “and it won’t be easy. I just— I just wanna be better and I don’t know i-if being away from my friends and— and you will help. I...I know I’m a mess and I’m a lot but...I’m asking if you can support me and accept my decision.”

Crumbling at the end of your homily, you squeak feebly, “Please j-just...please just trust me, Craig. I know I can be better, I just… I need some help, too.”

You don’t receive your answer straight away, but you practice patience out of consideration, knowing that it takes a while for Craig’s train of thought to get from one station to the next. All bouts of encouragement (or lack of) appear to be on hold for the time being. Your fingers sketch crescents into your inner palm.

Finally you receive a response, meticulous in its delivery: “Tweek, are you sure about this?”

An inkling of doubt emerges, but you stand against it. You maintain eye contact with a wooden nod. “I am.”

You think that he’s about to voice his disapproval and your mind reels—

Craig sets down the paper next to his nightstand, then immediately envelops you in a tight hug. On instinct you melt into it, bending into the crook of his neck like that spot was reserved only for you.

Surprise kicks in slowly afterwards, with your hands still at your sides.

“I’ll talk to Mom about it, maybe she can get you somebody without your parent’s permission,” Craig says, his voice thumping against the bridge of your nose, from where you’re positioned. “Maybe we can forge your mom’s signature or something.”

You laugh a little, even if he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. Relief washes over you like a wave, blooming from your chest and making its way to your hands that finally wrap around Craig’s midsection, then your brain that sighs against the tranquility his support brings. Light pours into your veins and solidifies, here.

He murmurs eventually, “I want you to stay, too.”

There’s an ugly sob that’s wedged in your throat, and your lip viciously quivers. You can already feel your tears soaking his clothes and _ugh_ you are not gonna be a gigantic crybaby here, so you just wind your fingers into the familiar fabric of Craig’s jacket to wordlessly remind him of what a giant asshole he is for saying that.

One hand strokes your hair in response, like an _I love you too_ sort of affirmation.

Eventually you both dispatch and you join Craig on the bed to watch 'Red Racer', overall content with unspoken company. It’s a small transition but it’s still nice; normality is something you feel like you’re not gonna have for a while — maybe it little spurts like here, but not overall — so it’s a good thing to treasure.

You’re definitely not gonna forgive your parents for what they’ve done to you — what they’re STILL doing to you, since you’ve received no apology via call or text. Maybe they don’t even realize what they’ve done. And that’ll be something ELSE to deal with, but…if Kenny is correct that you have a support system here (and they said it with such conviction it’d be weird to dismiss it), then honestly??? Meth can go fuck itself.

This can all be okay.

(And maybe Towelie offers discounts, if you make him a latte or something.)

**Author's Note:**

> [epitaph](https://sleepwalking.nu/post/173997876664/my-chest-a-jar-of-honey-knifed-openi-know-sweet)
> 
> ~~friendly reminder that tweek isn't this much of an asshole usually, so if you desire that kind content in this series please look elsewhere, thanks~~


End file.
